


Collar, Coffee, Cooking

by wheel_pen



Series: Indigo [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4529250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and his new slave, Indigo, go out to buy a slave collar, visit a coffee shop, and even try home cooking! Sherlock gets the feeling he is the one being taught lessons here, despite being the master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collar, Coffee, Cooking

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.
> 
> This story has not been Britpicked. Please let me know if I get anything horribly wrong.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

Sherlock awoke groggily, hating the sluggish feeling he got after the high of solving a case evaporated. Now he’d have to bide his time until another one came along, and he really didn’t think he could hope for more brilliant serial killers again so soon. So he would have to make do with some experiments he was working on, and hope London’s criminals didn’t wait _too_ long before returning to their diabolical ways. At least, the clever ones.

He was alone in the bed, and the sheets were cold. Indigo had been elsewhere for a while, then. According to his mobile Sherlock had been asleep for at least ten hours, so that wasn’t a surprise. But what had Indigo gotten up to in that time? Sherlock pulled on his blue dressing gown and for a moment wasn’t going to bother with anything else; then he decided to pull on a pair of pants. Why? Wasn’t like Indigo hadn’t already seen everything anyway. But he didn’t take them back off.

When Sherlock left his bedroom he saw what the slave had been up to: cleaning. The results were slightly alarming to Sherlock. Dishes washed and put away, kitchen surfaces scrubbed, even the _floor_ seemed a different color. He checked some of his experiments and saw that they were undisturbed, so he relaxed. In the living room books had been replaced on the shelves, newspapers neatly stacked by the fire, vacuum marks on the _couch_ of all things, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. As long as Indigo confined this little quirk to when Sherlock was asleep—and it apparently didn’t wake him—he supposed it was alright.

Then he finally saw the man in question, sitting in the window seat staring out at the rainy day, bundled in a hideous jumper that Mrs. Hudson must’ve bought. The scant light made his eyes seem a very deep blue indeed, and the expression on his face was… not an emotion Sherlock could easily describe. Melancholy, perhaps. Worse, maybe. A million miles away, definitely. He didn’t even notice when Sherlock walked up to him, starting only when Sherlock gently grazed his cheek with the back of his fingers.

“There you are,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, continuing to stroke his cheek while he took a deep breath and refocused on his surroundings. “Where’ve you been, then?” He meant mentally; but he didn’t think Indigo would tell him.

“Sorry,” the slave replied instead, and started to climb off the window seat.

“It’s alright, you can sit there,” Sherlock told him. “You can use all the furniture in the flat. I don’t mind.”

If he expected this to elicit much gratitude or joy, he was disappointed. “Thanks,” Indigo replied, barely more than flat, and just stood there, gazing over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock waited for a long moment and watched Indigo start to fade out again. “You cleaned,” he noted, trying to regain his attention.

“Yes,” the slave agreed. He frowned slightly. “Is that alright?”

“Do you prefer it clean?” Sherlock probed.

“It’s alright.”

“Well don’t touch my experiments,” Sherlock warned, even though he hadn’t.

“No, I won’t.”

“What do you want to do today?” Sherlock asked him, challengingly. “You can tell me if you have an idea,” he added when there was no response. “I’m not promising we’ll do it, but you can tell me.”

Indigo cocked his head slightly to the side and gave him an odd look. “I need a collar.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Interesting answer. I’m breaking the law if I don’t follow it, so there’s little value in refusing as a power play,” he assessed. “Though if we stayed in today it wouldn’t be necessary.”

“Do you know what happens to a slave who’s picked up without a collar?” Indigo asked. It was a genuine question and Sherlock frowned as he realized he didn’t.

“No. What?”

“They’re not allowed to say who they belong to,” Indigo informed him, “so the police just—“

“Not allowed?” Sherlock interrupted, finding this ridiculous.

“Well, I suppose they can _say_ it all they want,” Indigo corrected. “But no one listens to them. The police put their picture in the paper and wait until the owner calls in.”

“And of course if they call in, they get charged for letting their slave be uncollared in public,” Sherlock surmised.

“After sitting in jail for thirty days the slave is labeled abandoned property, and sold at state auction,” Indigo went on. “Lots of people do it on purpose, kick a slave out of the house with no collar, if they think trying to sell them isn’t worth it.”

He conveyed this with little emotion in his tone, but his eyes were troubled. “Has that ever happened to _you_?” Sherlock asked him.

Indigo just blinked at him. “You have my history,” he pointed out, and Sherlock rolled his eyes but was loathe to admit he didn’t recall the whole thing—he’d just been rather _busy_ lately, what with catching a serial killer and all.

“Well, definitely getting a collar, then,” Sherlock conceded. “What else?”

“We could use some groceries—“

He waved that off immediately. “Tedious. Loathsome. Have Mrs. Hudson do it. What else?” He felt like there was something else in the other man’s mind, if he could just draw it out. “Come on. Were you just going to stare out the window all day?”

“I was going to do what _you_ wanted,” Indigo claimed.

“Clearly not, since you’ve been cleaning while I slept,” Sherlock countered. “Now what else would you like to do today?” He was starting to get a bit frustrated with the slave.

Indigo’s expression and body language said he was working up to it. “Well…”

“Yes?”

“Could I read some of your books?” He asked this with disinterest, so if Sherlock said no, he could pretend it wasn’t a big deal.

“You’ve already _been_ reading them,” Sherlock noted, and Indigo’s eyes snapped to his, just for a second, concerned he might be in trouble for this. The spark of worry faded quickly, though; he had learned that not caring was safer. “Some of them have been moved even though you didn’t add anything new to the shelf,” Sherlock explained, “so I presume you’ve already been reading them today. It’s alright,” he added finally, perhaps too late as Indigo’s eyes had gone unfocused. “You can read whatever you want. I _expect_ you to read them,” he emphasized.

“Alright.” As if it had been entirely Sherlock’s idea, that Indigo couldn’t possibly care about one way or the other.

Sherlock studied him for a moment. “It’s very unlikely I’ll beat you, you know,” he finally threw out.

“That’s how I would prefer it.” Indigo did have that delightfully dry sense of humor which Sherlock appreciated. He wondered if previous masters had punished him for it, or if it went right over their heads. He suspected that Indigo had long ago learned not to trust words, only actions.

“Right. I’m going to shower and get dressed,” Sherlock informed him, turning away. “Make me some tea. Then we’ll go collar-shopping. Look up a place.”

***

Indigo didn’t seem to mind going out in the rain to fetch a cab, or holding an umbrella solely over Sherlock as he dashed from the front door to the vehicle. At least, he did these things on his own, without Sherlock asking him to, which was appropriately subservient. “Get up in the seat,” Sherlock ordered when Indigo tried to kneel on the floor of the cab. “I paid for those clothes, I don’t want you ruining them.” This was normal enough, surely. The floors of cabs were certainly disgusting, especially on a rainy day.

“Where to?” the driver prompted. Sherlock now took care to glance over taxi drivers and assess them, having recently found one who was a serial killer. This one seemed alright, if a little too into day-trading for his wife’s comfort.

“Where are we going?” Sherlock asked of Indigo. He reached over and tapped Sherlock’s ever-present phone, bringing up the address he’d inputted earlier, and Sherlock relayed it to the driver with some bemusement. Right, slaves weren’t really supposed to speak to free people on their own, unless they were on their master’s business. Bit dull, that.

Indigo stared out of the cab window as they drove through the rain—he liked to see the city, or so Sherlock presumed. Sherlock had scrolled through his history again while dressing and was still studying it, discreetly—Indigo had spent a lot of time in London before becoming a slave, during his medical training, and had been in and out of it several times more recently.

“Do you like the city?” Sherlock asked him quietly, hoping to catch him off-guard and get an honest answer. He should’ve known _that_ was unlikely.

“It’s alright.”

He tried an outright lie. “My brother has a place in the country I usually spend a few weeks at every year,” he commented casually, and he saw Indigo tense slightly before forcibly relaxing into oblivion. “Or we could just stay here in town,” he reversed, but there was no corresponding body language of relief in response. “Indigo?”

“As you like.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the tediousness of trying to converse with him sometimes. Why did people even _have_ slaves? Well, it generally wasn’t for conversation, he supposed. And he knew Indigo’s reticence wasn’t due to having nothing else to say; more because he’d learned that saying nothing was the safer option.

“Is this something you’re excited about?” Sherlock tried. He tapped the man’s arm to get his attention—wasn’t he ever punished for losing focus?—and gestured to encompass their current situation. “Getting a collar? Is this a big thing for you? I’ve never done it before,” he pointed out. “And do _not_ say ‘it’s alright.’”

“It’s useful.”

“Oh G-d,” Sherlock sighed, leaning his head back against the seat. “I’d get more out of talking to the microwave than to you!” He regretted the words as soon as they were out; he was trying to encourage Indigo to relax more, not intimidate him into shutting up.

“It does at least tell the time,” Indigo deadpanned, and Sherlock laughed unexpectedly. The corner of the other man’s mouth quirked up a tiny bit for a second, which Sherlock counted as a win. He was slightly shocked when Indigo voluntarily added, “It hurts sometimes.”

Sherlock frowned. “Getting a collar?”

“Sometimes they pinch when measuring.”

The cab pulled to a stop before Sherlock had to respond to that. Indigo got out and held the umbrella for him, pointing out a puddle to step over, and then ushered him into a quiet, modern, and very expensive-looking jewelry store. A well-dressed saleswoman came over right away and took their coats and dripping umbrella, offered them hot tea, and introduced herself as Elonwy.

“And how can I help you today?” she asked.

“Slave collar,” Sherlock answered without preamble. He didn’t see any at the front but he presumed Indigo had researched the place.

“Of course. This way, sir.” Elonwy led them off to the side, and the slave collars started to appear—elaborate ones made of precious metals and studded with gems were first, and the most prominently displayed of course. Sherlock really didn’t think Indigo would go in for one of those. But there were other materials available, too—lacy ribbon, braided cord, metal chains, leather bands. Apparently anything you could fix around someone’s neck and hang a tag from was acceptable, though Sherlock suspected this particular shop sold only the finest examples.

The saleswoman’s next question was the one Sherlock had started to dread the moment he entered the shop. “And what sort of model are you looking for, sir?”

Sherlock turned to Indigo to see if he was gazing at any in particular, only to find that he’d dropped to his knees as soon as they’d stopped moving. It was slightly disconcerting. “What have you got in leather?” Sherlock responded, and Indigo didn’t seem to object.

Elonwy laid several objects out on the top of the glass case, subtly directing him towards the more expensive ones. They certainly went with _his_ clothes better, not so much Indigo’s Nordic jumper. And Sherlock abhorred the thought of anything _rustic_. He actually did consider asking the slave for his opinion but decided he probably wouldn’t give one, at least outright.

“Stand up, let’s see how they look on you,” Sherlock told him, and held the leather strips up to Indigo’s throat. Too shiny, wrong color, too fussy. “Yes, I don’t think the spikes are _really_ you,” he judged dryly, earning a half-hearted acknowledging lip movement that couldn’t really be called a smile. At least that meant he was paying attention, though. “One of these three, definitely,” he decided, and Indigo’s gaze lingered on one in particular before he knelt back down. It was black, plain but well-made. “That one,” Sherlock told her.

“Very good, sir. And the tag?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in alarm momentarily. He thought he’d done well just picking out the collar itself; too much longer trying to decide between items that all did the same job and he would lose what little patience remained. Time to break protocol, then. “Excuse me,” he told the saleswoman, then neatly crouched down beside Indigo, startling him slightly. “Pick out a tag,” he murmured, not so much trying to be polite as trying not to let the saleswoman hear too much of his private business. “This is bloody boring.”

Indigo did not seem to find this admission surprising and he rose to his feet again, quickly scanning the selection of tags. Elonwy carefully betrayed no negative response, though her increased carefulness was response enough. Sherlock drifted into playing with his phone, until he heard Indigo make a little noise and looked up to see him pointing at something in a case. Elonwy’s eyes flickered over to Sherlock.

“Let him see whatever he wants,” he ordered boredly. From the ensuing sounds he assumed he was obeyed.

A few moments later Indigo made another noise and Sherlock saw he was kneeling again, which meant _he_ probably had to do something. Elonwy was studiously assembling some forms on a clipboard. And apparently Indigo favored a tag shaped like a UFO. Sherlock gave him a disdainful look but certainly wasn’t going to bother picking out something else.

“We’ll need some information, including the inscription,” Elonwy told Sherlock. “And I’ll need to make a copy of his bill of sale for our records.”

“Bill of—“ A folded piece of paper appeared at his side. “Ah. Here you go.” Indigo was the one with experience at this sort of thing, after all.

“Thank you, sir,” Elonwy told him. “I’ll just go make a copy.”

Once she’d disappeared into the back Sherlock shoved the clipboard down to Indigo. He detested forms. “Fill this out,” he added unnecessarily. “You know your name, right? And our address?”

“Yes.”

“And my mobile number?”

“Yes.”

His efficiency irked Sherlock. “Don’t get any of the fancy scripts,” he ordered. “Just something plain. Wait. Is there any sort of rule about it?” he wanted to know.

Indigo was filling in the form quickly and neatly. “No.”

“I mean unofficially,” Sherlock clarified. “Among slaves. You know, ha ha, I got a font with serifs and you didn’t?” Indigo looked up at him in bemusement. “No? Fine then.” He was just looking out for the man’s standing in his subculture, after all.

Elonwy returned with the bill of sale, which Sherlock passed back down to Indigo. The saleswoman seemed slightly confused by the clipboard’s absence, until she looked over the counter and realized Indigo had it. “That’s what one _has_ slaves for, isn’t it?” Sherlock commented to her. “To do tedious things like paperwork?”

“Of course, sir,” she answered professionally. “The last thing is to measure him. Then we’ll get you the temporary collar, and your final one should be ready in a week or less, depending on your chosen options.”

Sherlock nudged Indigo with his foot. “Don’t get any of the time-consuming options,” he instructed.

Indigo handed him back the clipboard without comment. Sherlock made a quick onceover, just in case, then set it on the counter. From a cabinet beneath the display cases Elonwy retrieved a series of metal rings, each of which opened on a hinge. “If you would have him stand, sir, I’ll get a measurement,” she said. “The chosen collar will be somewhat adjustable, of course.”

Indigo stood as directed but Sherlock was staring at the rings with a frown. “I’ll do it,” he decided. Elonwy did not seem overly surprised; perhaps there were a lot of masters who didn’t like anyone else touching their slaves, even a salesperson. He took the rings and snapped the biggest one open and shut experimentally. Then he approached Indigo with it, carefully closing the ring around his neck without letting either the hinge or the ends pinch him.

It settled awkwardly over his chest, clearly too large. “Who on Earth would this fit?” Sherlock wondered. A neck that size would likely indicate a total body mass of—

“Seven,” Indigo murmured, and Sherlock frowned at him. Dark blue eyes glanced down at the rings Sherlock held, then back up significantly. They had numbers engraved on the metal, apparently the size, and Sherlock quickly exchanged the massive one for the 7-ring.

“How does that feel? Is that how it’s supposed to fit?”

Indigo’s lips moved a tiny bit and Sherlock decided to take this as a yes. Before removing the ring, though, he slid two fingers beneath it, seeing how tight it went. A flicker of discomfort crossed Indigo’s face as the metal ring pressed against his throat.

“Too small, I think,” Sherlock judged. “Let’s try an eight.” He put the new ring around Indigo’s neck and decided he liked the amount of give better. “Maybe we should go with a collar that has an emergency release mechanism,” he mused thoughtfully. “Have you got any of those?” he asked Elonwy.

“Sir?” she asked in professional confusion.

He assumed she hadn’t been paying attention, which was rather negligent. “A collar with an emergency release mechanism,” Sherlock repeated shortly, turning to her. “So in case something pulls on it too hard it will come off, instead of choking him. You know, once I worked on a case where someone had tied the cord for the window blinds around a slave’s collar and pushed him out the window—I suppose if the collar had just broken open he would’ve fallen three stories anyway, but that seems like a better chance than strangling—“ He felt a hand brush his and looked over to see Indigo shaking his head minutely. “Not really the done thing?” Sherlock assumed, taking in Elonwy’s carefully-controlled expression as well.

“I’m afraid we don’t get many requests for that feature, sir,” she admitted, “but I can look into it if you like.”

“Yes,” Sherlock told her firmly, even if that wasn’t really the answer she’d hoped for. “Size eight.”

Elonwy took the information and put the rings away. “And here’s your temporary tag, sir,” she added, handing him a small plastic sleeve with a card inside holding Sherlock’s contact numbers. “It’s recommended to not get it wet.”

Sherlock nudged Indigo, who had sunk back down to his knees. “Did you hear that? Don’t get it wet.” Indigo’s look in return said he was familiar with this.

Well, Sherlock wasn’t, he’d made that clear. He blinked in confusion at the black ribbon Elonwy produced, and she threaded the tag onto it for him. “Oh. That works?” Sherlock asked her.

“It’s perfectly legal, sir, as long as it stays around his neck in public, and the information is legible,” she assured him. “Your final collar and tag should be ready in just a few days, we’ll call to let you know.”

Discreetly she tapped the total amount and Sherlock handed over his credit card, rolling his eyes. Apparently a ribbon and a card was ‘perfectly legal,’ meaning all the rest of this was just extra designed to make money. The way of the world, really. He dropped the ribbon on Indigo’s lap. “Here.” He signed the credit card slip Elonwy handed him and tucked the card back in his pocket. When he looked down at Indigo, ready to leave, he saw the slave still hadn’t tied the ribbon on.

“What’s the problem?” Sherlock asked, as the saleswoman had gone to fetch their coats. “Come on.” He walked towards the door, trusting Indigo would follow.

He did. “You’re supposed to put it on me,” Indigo told him quickly, keeping an eye out for Elonwy. “It’s a—thing,” he added weakly, seeing Sherlock’s blank look.

“Okay, fine,” Sherlock sighed gracelessly, tying the ribbon haphazardly around Indigo’s neck. “No special words? I dub thee slave Indigo?” he questioned scathingly. “I mean, it’s a ribbon and a card, hardly worth—“

Elonwy reappeared with their coats and the umbrella. They were warm, and nearly dry. Classy place. “Thank you, and have a good day, sir,” she told Sherlock, expertly ignoring Indigo as a free person should. Sherlock stepped out in the rain to get away from her, holding the umbrella while Indigo fetched a cab.

“G-d, that was tedious,” Sherlock complained, once they were inside. Indigo was extra-wet as Sherlock had refused the first taxi he found on the grounds the driver looked like he might be a violent criminal, but he didn’t try to kneel on the floor again, at least. “And apparently I could’ve just put some string and a sticky note on you and been fine,” he added in exaggeration. “You didn’t get it _wet_ , did you?”

No answer; Indigo was staring out the window. “Hey.” Sherlock bumped his arm, making him turn. “Do you want a coffee? _I_ want a coffee. Driver, find us a coffee shop.” Indigo was already fading out again. “Stop doing that, it’s annoying,” Sherlock ordered, shaking his leg a little.

“Sorry.”

“I seriously doubt it,” Sherlock shot back. “Talk to me about this collar thing,” he instructed, and Indigo looked at him questioningly. “Why I had to put it on you.”

“Slaves aren’t supposed to put their own collars on,” Indigo stated matter-of-factly. “If they can put them on they can take them off.”

“Which they also aren’t supposed to do,” Sherlock surmised. “What about when you shower?” Indigo shrugged a little as if that made no difference. “You leave it on? If it’s leather or metal or whatever?”

“Usually the real collars are treated, to be waterproof,” Indigo informed him. “We’re not even supposed to touch them, really.”

“Don’t they itch sometimes?” Indigo took a breath, as if Sherlock’s question had made it impossible to ignore the uncomfortable sensation. “Well, do whatever you need to,” he allowed, and Indigo immediately adjusted the ribbon. “And if someone or something is trying to strangle you with it, by all means take it off.”

“Thanks,” Indigo replied dryly.

“It’s all in your head, anyway,” Sherlock judged dismissively. “Slaves dying because they won’t untie their own collars… Just psychological.”

“Most things are.”

The cab let them off at a coffee shop. “Like that leg thing of yours,” Sherlock reminded him. Their hands bumped as they both reached for the shop door and Sherlock let Indigo open it for him. “I cured that rather easily. Years of pain, gone at a stroke.” He was going to continue talking about it until Indigo acknowledged his contribution.

“Yes,” Indigo agreed with a frown. “Very… odd.”

They were in line now, the cab having apparently taken them to the most crowded, slowest coffee shop in London, from Sherlock’s point of view. “’Odd’? That’s all you have to say about it?” he asked indignantly. Another thought occurred to him. “It doesn’t _still_ hurt, does it?” He hadn’t noticed him limping.

“No, it’s fine,” Indigo responded. Sherlock recognized how little thought there was behind the answer and rolled his eyes.

He was about to interrogate him further when someone bumped into him carrying their order away. “G-d, this is intolerable,” he said, not careful to keep his voice down. Sherlock was not one for blending with the masses, everything from his dramatic wool coat to his aristocratic sneer making him stand out in the middle-class crowd.

“I’ll get it, you can sit down,” Indigo offered. “Can I have your credit card?”

Sherlock gave it to him. “They let slaves pay with someone else’s credit card?” _That_ seemed unwise.

Indigo tapped his tag. “They check to make sure it matches,” he explained. “Or, they’re supposed to.”

Sherlock felt a new world of fraudulent possibilities opening up before him, which was somewhat exciting. “Fine. Don’t take too long.” He pushed away from the crowd and settled at a table by the window, pulling out his phone to entertain himself. Maybe he should have gotten a slave _years_ ago, to do all the tedious things Sherlock hated doing. Not to mention, sex whenever he wanted it—which Sherlock honestly wouldn’t have called a big priority before, but it was a nice perk.

Indigo set a tray down in front of him, containing two coffees and a pastry on a plate. He took the opposite chair. “Credit card,” he began, handing it back to Sherlock, “and—“

“Why aren’t you kneeling?” Sherlock interrupted, in a challenging tone. “There’s a slave over there, _she’s_ kneeling.”

“The floor’s dirty,” Indigo pointed out matter-of-factly. Sherlock had the feeling that now that this exception had been granted, he was going to have a hard time getting it back, unless they were on the spot like at the collar store. Which was fine with him—so far. “Here’s your receipt,” Indigo tried to continue.

“What do I want this for?” Sherlock asked, not touching the slip of paper. It seemed like it might be greasy.

It didn’t waver in Indigo’s hand. “So you can see that I didn’t charge anything extra.”

“Ridiculous precaution,” Sherlock declared. “You could’ve ordered extra on a separate transaction.” Indigo shrugged, not denying this, and tucked the receipt away in his pocket. “Why are you keeping it?” Sherlock wanted to know, sipping his coffee. It was exactly the way he wanted it.

“To compare to the credit card bill, before paying it.”

“You are so bloody responsible,” Sherlock marveled. He could barely even stand the tedium of _paying_ his credit card bill, let alone checking the charges first. He vaguely recalled Mycroft saying something about that to him, actually. But—not unlike Indigo—he had the capacity to tune out dull things.

“You got yourself a coffee,” he noted, as Indigo drank it. He hadn’t meant anything by it, but Indigo suddenly froze.

“Was that okay?” he checked.

“Yes,” Sherlock assured him, and he relaxed. “But how did you _know_ it was okay? I didn’t say.”

“Body language.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock remarked thoughtfully. He would have to test this sometime. “And you thought I’d let you have a pastry, too?” he assumed.

“That’s for you,” Indigo corrected. Sherlock arched an eyebrow questioningly. “You didn’t have breakfast.”

“I don’t _normally_ have breakfast,” Sherlock informed him.

“Oh. Alright. I’ll take it home, for when you _do_ eat next,” Indigo replied. “Do you want me to make something for lunch and dinner today?”

Normally, this conversation would be intensely dull to Sherlock; food, and making food, and eating food, and planning about food. Pure tedium. But there was something fascinating about watching the slave try to figure out what he was supposed to do. “I usually get takeaway,” Sherlock admitted. “Are you hungry? You can eat that now.”

Indigo began consuming the pastry before Sherlock could change his mind. “Do you want me to cook instead?”

“ _Can_ you cook?”

“Somewhat,” Indigo hedged. “I’ll have to go grocery shopping first.”

This conversation, prosaic as it was, was easily the longest he’d had with Sherlock, and the most engaged he’d been. “You feel better with the collar on,” Sherlock deduced.

He perhaps should have kept this observation to himself. “Less chance of getting picked up by the police,” Indigo said vaguely, finishing off the pastry.

“You’ve never been sold at state auction,” Sherlock pointed out. The slave tensed slightly and tried to hide it. “So if you were picked up for being uncollared, your master must have come to get you, and risked charges himself.”

“It’s just a fine,” Indigo dismissed.

“Does beg the question of how you were out, uncollared, to begin with,” Sherlock mused.

Indigo did not want to be talking about this. That was quite easy to tell. It didn’t really dissuade Sherlock, but he could already see Indigo’s body slipping into a restful state, knew his mind was going to follow it any moment. It was almost like a meditative trance. Sherlock wondered what he’d managed to escape—at least consciously—by using it.

Quickly he reached across the table and squeezed Indigo’s hand, bringing him up to the surface. “Are you done with your coffee? Let’s go home.”

This, Indigo was prepared to participate in. They both grimaced when they saw it was raining harder. “Wait here, I’ll get a cab,” Indigo said.

“Take the umbrella,” Sherlock tried to tell him.

“That’s alright.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock ordered. “I’ll be inside, you take the umbrella.” Honestly, the kind of things he was forced to argue about.

Indigo took the umbrella, stopped a cab, then shielded Sherlock until they were both in the back seat. “Two-two-one Baker Street,” Sherlock told the driver. Somewhat violent temper, but Sherlock judged they had nothing to fear as long as they stayed away from the man’s teenage daughter.

He looked askance at Indigo. “You’re not getting that wet, are you?” he asked, flicking at the makeshift tag on his collar.

“I’ll seal it up better when we get home,” Indigo promised. “Plastic wrap works well.”

“Tell Mrs. Hudson to get you a coat with a hood,” Sherlock instructed him. He tried to make his tone matter-of-fact so Indigo wouldn’t infer anything from it. “And tell her to do the grocery shopping. I don’t fancy going out in this again.”

“I’ll make up a list,” Indigo agreed. “What are your favorite foods? Anything I should avoid?”

Sherlock looked over at him, pleased that he was interested in something enough to focus and take the initiative. His choice of topics seemed odd to Sherlock, though, exactly what _he_ would’ve found dull beyond salvage. “Why _are_ you so bloody responsible?” he asked instead.

“Your brother said you needed someone to look after you,” Indigo revealed simply. “And you went out and bought _me_. So I presume that’s my job.”

The mention of Mycroft set Sherlock’s teeth on edge. “You presume a great deal,” he said frostily, even though he was correct.

“Oh. Sorry.” And there he went. Which was not what Sherlock had intended, and he growled slightly at the sheer amount of _work_ managing this slave required.

Sherlock let him bask on his tropical isle or wherever he went until they got to Baker Street. “Get out. Move,” he ordered, practically shoving him out onto the curb. Then they _both_ had to stand in the rain while Sherlock got the door unlocked, since Sherlock was holding the umbrella and Indigo made no move to take it from him.

“Tell Mrs. Hudson you need a set of keys, too,” he grumbled, spilling wetly into the foyer. “And a phone. Indi—“ Sherlock looked around, didn’t see him. Slowly, he opened the front door. Indigo was still standing outside, in the rain, staring off at the middle distance. Sherlock gazed at him for a long moment. If a face full of cold rain didn’t faze him, what else could he ignore in that state?

Sherlock went with what had worked that morning. “Indigo,” he murmured, running the back of his fingers gently down his cheek. He came back with a start, glancing around at the rain as if unsure where it had come from. “Come inside,” Sherlock said, drawing him into the building. “Look, I’m sure that little trick of yours is simply wonderful at dull dinner parties—“ Indigo raised an eyebrow as if to say, you think _that’s_ what I use it for? “—but standing out in the rain when you could have gone inside does _not_ indicate very strong survival skills. And I intend to get the most from my investment.” Maybe Indigo would understand those terms.

“I was on sale,” he deadpanned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Hudson!” he shouted, already thumping up the stairs.

“Yes, Sherlock, dear?” she asked, emerging from her rooms. She looked askance at the puddles he’d left in the foyer.

Sherlock leaned precariously over the railing to address her. “Indigo needs a coat with a hood, keys to the flat, and a phone,” he ordered. “Also, we need groceries, apparently.”

“That’s what I keep trying to tell you, dear,” she responded, but Sherlock was already barging into his flat, flinging his wet clothes and shoes everywhere. He started a rant about the weather and how science could have discovered how to moderate it by now if research hadn’t focused on pointless things like plants and outer space and plate tectonics, continuing uninterrupted into his bathroom to grab a towel and then back into the living room, where he stumbled over his coat which was still on the floor.

So was Indigo, kneeling quietly in a corner, still wearing his own wet clothes. He’d spaced out again, and suddenly Sherlock realized _he_ was being punished. “You are incredibly passive aggressive,” he declared to Indigo.

Tellingly, this got his attention. “Sorry, did you want me to do something?” he asked, almost completely believable in his innocence.

Sherlock knew better, though. “You may continue being responsible,” he allowed, standing just far enough back that Indigo didn’t have to crane his neck up to see him.

“Alright. What do you feel that should entail?”

“Don’t be _tedious_ , Indigo,” Sherlock warned him. “You were doing alright there on your own.”

“You said I presumed too much,” Indigo pointed out carefully.

“No, I said you presumed a great deal,” Sherlock corrected sharply. “If you’re going to get irritated at the things I say at least remember them accurately.” He gestured towards the heap of damp clothes. “Back to work.”

After a moment of further assessment Indigo stood and began collecting the items Sherlock had discarded. He handed him the towel as well. “Dry off and change your clothes,” Sherlock told him, adding, “If you like.”

The tiniest hint of a smile appeared on Indigo’s face as he turned away to hang up his coat, as though Sherlock was finally getting it. It was a rather strange sensation for the other man. “What do you like to eat?” Indigo asked again.

“Nothing,” Sherlock admitted. “I don’t like eating. We just had Chinese last night, I should be fine until tomorrow morning.” He braced himself for some kind of torturously indirect protest, or at least a look of disbelief.

“Alright,” Indigo shrugged, double-checking the contents of the fridge. “Can I make something for myself before then?”

“If you like,” Sherlock replied, slightly caught off-guard. “Eat whenever you want.”

“Thanks.” He faced Sherlock. “I’ll go change, then talk to Mrs. Hudson about groceries,” he proposed. “Is that alright?”

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed shortly. That was all dull to him. “Then I want to see what books you were interested in this morning.” He was going to figure this man out, one way or another.

***

Indigo had been clattering around in the kitchen for a while now. It was odd having someone else in the flat, making noise, moving around. Odd, but not yet irritating, Sherlock judged. Until—“What’s that smell?” he asked, a bit sharply.

The slave glanced at him. “Pasta and tomato sauce,” he replied.

Sherlock walked over to the stove to survey his work. “Why are you cooking?” he asked suspiciously. “I told you, I’m not going to eat again until tomorrow. I don’t need to eat much, the body is just transport, most people waste far too much—“

He stopped talking when Indigo looked at him, still stirring a pan of red chunky liquid. “It’s for _me_ ,” he said simply. “Is that alright? You said I could when—“

“Yes, alright,” Sherlock agreed abruptly. “Eat whenever you want. I’m not going to micromanage your biological functions.”

A slight smile appeared on Indigo’s face. “Thank you.”

Sherlock watched for a moment longer. “You’re going to clean up when you’re done?” he checked, looking at the empty jars and cans on the counter. Because he obviously cared so much about cleanliness.

“Oh, certainly,” Indigo assured him.

“Why are you making so _much_?” Sherlock wanted to know.

“It keeps well,” the slave replied. “I can make a batch now, and get several meals out of it this week.”

“Angelo’s does takeaway,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Oh, really? It _was_ good, what I had there,” Indigo agreed, testing a piece of pasta. Sherlock watched him slurp the long noodle down. “Would you prefer I get takeaway, instead of cooking?”

Sherlock didn’t like this question. Having a preference meant he actually cared one way or the other. And he didn’t. “Do what you like,” he shrugged, walking away.

“Thank you.”

He went back to reading the news online. Indigo dished himself up some pasta and sauce and sat at the kitchen table to eat. Sherlock came back in for some water—the transport had to stay hydrated, anyway. He leaned against the counter watching Indigo eat.

“Is it alright I’m using the table?” the slave asked mildly. Sherlock suspected he knew the answer perfectly well. “Should I go to my room to eat?”

“No.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock peered over his shoulder to see better. “Are those _mushrooms_?” he asked, squinting at the sauce. “Do people normally put mushrooms in pasta sauce?”

“I like it that way,” Indigo shrugged. “Would you prefer—“

“I _really_ don’t care,” Sherlock insisted. But he still stood there.

“Of course, it’s yours, if you want to try some,” Indigo offered after a moment.

“I just _said_ —“

“Sorry, I meant later.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose disdainfully. “It’s good warmed up?”

“Better, I think,” Indigo opined, “once the ingredients have a chance to blend more.”

“It’s just tinned, isn’t it?”

The slave nodded. “Yes, just tomato sauce and paste, and tinned tomatoes,” he agreed. “And mushrooms.”

“No secret herbs and spices?” Sherlock checked.

“No, I was never too good at that part,” Indigo confessed. “It’s pretty mild. Quite good if you like tomatoes, I think.”

“I like tomatoes. I don’t _dislike_ tomatoes,” Sherlock corrected.

“Some people don’t like all the different textures.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the eccentricities of some people. “Well, I’ll try some,” he decided finally, and Indigo immediately got up to fix him a plate. “Just a little,” he instructed, watching the preparation closely. “So if I have some later I can compare the flavor.”

“D’you want to eat here?” Indigo offered, setting his plate down on the table.

“Alright.”

 


End file.
